


sun and water

by kimaro



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:14:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29580798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaro/pseuds/kimaro
Summary: neither of you want to leave.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	1. one

You’re pretty sure that the man drowning his sorrows at the bar is Captain America.

You’ve been silently making him drinks for the past few hours as he stares emptily at the crackling television in the corner, his presence steady out of the corner of your eye as the last of your patrons drift out into the chill.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Your voice breaks him out of his reverie, and his eyes are unfocused as they flit around to land on you.

“Sir, we’re closing. Do you need help getting home?”

He breaks your gaze, slurring out something unintelligible before attempting to get up, stumbling, barely catching himself on an oak pillar behind him. You’re over the counter and by his side in an instant, a calming hand on his arm as his chest heaves, tight gasps escaping his shuddering frame. This close, you’re pretty sure it’s him. Steve Rogers. Captain America. One of the Avengers. He’s scruffier than you remember in the press photos you’ve seen, and his hair is longer, curling over the collar of his shirt, but it’s undoubtedly him.

From the way he’s moving, he’d be well on his way to alcohol poisoning by now if he was just a normal guy. Instead, he’s got an arm braced over your shoulders, his weight tipping over onto your small frame as you weave through a sea of chairs and tables towards the back entrance of the bar. You didn’t think super soldiers could even get drunk. Too late, you remember that you still have to clean up and close. You mutter a curse, turning back to apologise to Angela but she just waves you off, an odd smile quirking her lips.

It is way too cold outside for the jeans and tank top you’re wearing, but the Captain runs hot, and it isn’t until you’re safely seated in the taxi that you realise you’ve left your coat in the bar. That’s not even your biggest problem right now. He doesn’t remember where he lives. A nervous laugh escapes you, and you glance at the cabbie, who is thankfully too engrossed in switching radio stations to notice your turmoil in the backseat.

“What do you mean you don’t remember?” you hiss, pulling the seatbelt over his body and swatting his hands away when he attempts to pull you into his lap.

“Don’t know,” he mumbles. “Don’t have a home.”

Whatever smart remark you’re about to fire off withers at the abject sorrow in his voice, thick with the brightness of unshed tears as he raises his eyes to yours. You have to clear your throat a couple of times before you manage to stutter out the address of your apartment to the driver.

He’s quiet through the ride, his head bowed, large, calloused hands wrapped gently around one of your own. You let him.


	2. two

He’s so tall he barely clears your doorway, and the heat of him is a welcome surrender when he collapses in your bed, an arm snaking around your waist and taking you down with him. The squeak you let out is muffled against your pillow as he winds his arms around your middle, resting his head over your chest.

“Please.” The whisper barely makes it to your ears, and your hands settle in his hair, petting softly.

He’s asleep against the thundering tide of your heart, and the lull of the gentle night takes you under, too.

Waking comes in fits and starts, and the muted sunlight peeking through a gap in the curtains is slowly drawing to his attention the aching throb at his temples, and a warm weight fitted snugly to the backs of his knees. A soft purring permeates the haze, and Steve realises, with instant clarity, three very important things.

1\. He’s incredibly hungover.

2\. There’s a pair of curious green eyes peeking up at him from a nest in the sheets, attached to a furry body. It’s a cat. It’s yawning now. Oh. It’s going back to sleep. Do all cats purr this loud?

3\. This is not his house.

And try as he might, he simply cannot bring himself to care greatly about the last point. Despite the pressure in his head, the air is still, golden, full of promise. The sheets on the other side of the bed are cold, but they smell faintly of oranges, and the scent floods his senses. There could be no words to describe this moment, he thinks. And no poetry for the mellow, dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The clock in the kitchen is telling Steve it’s almost noon.

There’s a recorder sitting on the island bench and a sticker saying ‘Play Me! ’ taped to it.

He does.

Your voice trickles out, silvery and lilting.

_Good morning, Captain Rogers! If you’re listening to this, you’ve probably got a killer hangover, but you’re alive. That’s great! There’s water and painkillers on the table, and there’s a lovely little café downstairs that makes great coffee and breakfast, and that’s on the table as well. You don’t have to eat it; I just thought you might be hungry._

He eyes the aforementioned coffee and bagel. Now that you’ve mentioned it, he really is hungry.

_You didn’t have your wallet on you last night, so I called the bar. Turns out you left it there! I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous, but I told them you would go in to grab it today. Feel free to shower or nap or whatever. Stay here as long as you need. Just in case you’re worried, I didn’t take any pictures or make any recordings or anything. I won’t be telling anybody anything either. Swear on my life. I’ll even sign an NDA or whatever it is that you guys do when you cross paths with regular people. Sorry I couldn’t be there when you woke up. Office hours don’t wait for anyone. There’s a spare key hanging by the front door… um, if you wanted to leave and come back, I guess. I wanted to put my number up on the fridge or something so you could let me know you were okay, but that’s probably not a good idea since privacy and all that, so just write me a note or something? Just so I know you’re feeling better. Um… yeah. That’s all I had to say, I think._

A pause, and the sensation of something brimming over.

_Whoever that woman is, I hope she loved you as much as you love her. And it is my wish that it pains you a little less every day. Have a wonderful day, Captain._

The recording ends with a click and a whir, and he doesn’t realise he’s crying until there’s a furry head butting his chin, an engine purr vibrating through his hands as he strokes fur gone sable in the midday sun, a rough tongue swiping at his cheeks.

The collar jingles. _Basil_ , it says. And your number, on the other side. Steve commits it to memory. He’ll take you up on that offer, he thinks.


End file.
